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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881690">Tatooine Tattoo</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo'>Melo_Mapo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Carwash Trope except Spaceships, Cobb Vanth in a Crop Top, Courtesy of the Marshal of Mos Pelgo, Crack Treated Seriously, Din is in for a good polish, Frottage, Gratuitous Mentions of Sweat, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mostly Seriously, Takes place between Chapter 13: The Jedi &amp; Chapter 14: The Tragedy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:20:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881690</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Razor Crest is in need of some repairs and the Mandalorian decides to call on his favorite mechanic. Little does he know that a certain Tatooine Marshal is in town for some good ol' fundraising.</p><p>
  <em> Vanth tilts his head, a slow smirk growing on his lips.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“First you ask me to undress, now you want me to dress, make up your mind, Mando.”</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>182</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Melo Mapo’s Favorite Mandalorian Pairings</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was written for the lovely, silly folks of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill">CoffeeQuill</a>'s discord server.<br/>Please go blame <a href="https://intricatecakes.tumblr.com">Cakes</a> for fueling our madness with her lovely art of <a href="https://intricatecakes.tumblr.com/post/635774610028281856/intricatecakes-corn-crop-top-on-a-cobb">Cobb</a> (now with <a href="https://intricatecakes.tumblr.com/post/636523395072376832/back-by-popular-demand-more-crop-top">Din</a> added).<br/>Thanks also to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_teeth">ghost_teeth</a> whose <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815836">Din/Cobb fic</a> helped me nail down Cobb's characterization.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Razor Crest, you are clear to land, Bay Three-Five” </p><p>The voice of the Mos Eisley Tower operator is a comfort at this point. Din is aware forming habits is dangerous for a Mandalorian on the run with a powerful toddler, but Peli has proven she has no equal when it comes to getting his old ship the tune up it deserves.</p><p>The Razor Crest seems to agree, settling down with a rattle in Peli’s hangar. The woman is quick to emerge and welcomes the Mandalorian and his Foundling with enthusiasm. The kid, Grogu now, he reminds himself, has decided he wants to walk everywhere under his own power today, and Din pauses at the bottom of the ramp, waiting for him to catch up. Grogu jumps off the ramp like it’s a gigantic cliff — granted, to him, it is — and doggedly waddles forward, already opening his arms for Peli to pick him up. The woman is as impatient as he is, and closes the few steps between them to get to him sooner.</p><p>“Oh, you’ve gotten heavier, kid! Are you growing up, or across?”</p><p>Propping him on one arm, she tickles his belly with the other and the kid giggles happily.</p><p>“So, Mando, can’t get enough of my talents, heh?”</p><p>“Seems like it,” Din answers, handing her the last of his credits and hoping it’s enough. </p><p>Peli looks at the meager offering in her palm, grimaces, but pockets all of it but a couple of Imperial Credits, which she hands back. </p><p>“Here, you better go get yourself a drink at the cantina. The work will take a while if you’ve got no funds for parts.”</p><p>The kid still held closely in one arm, she waves the other, ordering her droids around and directing them to various repairs. Din hesitates for a moment, hesitant to leave the kid with her now that he knows Gideon is still alive and likely still in pursuit. She notices and, misinterpreting his dithering, she exclaims:</p><p>“I’ll babysit the kid gratis, I owe you for that card game with Mr. Mandible.”</p><p>She then promptly pushes him out of her hangar. </p><p>One of Tatooine’s suns has already set, and the second is not far behind. Enjoying the cooling in the air that comes with dusk, Din wanders the streets of Mos Eisley. He skips the cantina, opting instead to head to a dune from which to contemplate the sunset. While the clear sky turns ablaze in shades of pink and orange, Din reminisces about his last stay, idly wondering if Vanth has managed to keep the truce going between Tuskens and miners. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Later, he stops at a food stall, spending his last credits on some stew for Grogu, Peli, and himself. He makes his way back to the mechanic’s hangar, finding her halfway inside one of the propulsors. </p><p>“Back so soon?”</p><p>“I have to feed the kid.” </p><p>Spotting the third container in his hands, Peli lets herself fall back to the ground. She whistles and a droid emerges from within the Crest, Grogu riding it with glee. Din quashes the fleeting shiver of worry — Peli’s droids are <em>safe</em>, the kid is fine.</p><p>“Kid, looks like your dad got you extra.”</p><p>Din shakes his head no, and hands the extra to her.</p><p>“Oh. That’s nice of you.”</p><p>Under the gruff attitude, Din feels that Peli is sincere and, embarrassed, justifies himself.</p><p>“Not enough light left to work, anyway.” </p><p>“Pfff, nonsense.” </p><p>In between spoonfuls of her stew, Peli walks back inside her shop and uses her elbow to punch a couple of controls on the console. Lights flood the hangar, bright enough to work by. She walks back outside and, pointing with her head towards the shop, she says: </p><p>“I’ve got a spare room you can use to eat and kip down.” </p><p>Din, who was planning to sleep onboard the Crest, tilts his head, turning to look at his ship. Peli chuckles:</p><p>“I’m not in a sleeping mood tonight, so unless you can sleep through me and my droids banging around the old carcass, you’ll take my offer.” </p><p>Din sighs, looks at his ship, looks at the shop, then looks down at Grogu who’s been trying to reach for his stew for the past few minutes. </p><p>“For the kid,” Din accepts. </p><p>“Sure,” says Peli, her raised eyebrow showing she knows better. </p><p>Din gathers his kid, their food, and takes the hospitality offered to him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Din doesn’t know what kind of caf Peli runs on, but she is still her mockingly chipper self when he awakes the following morning and joins her outside. </p><p>“She’s good as new!” declares the mechanic proudly, right before her attempt at swiping a grease mark on the Crest’s hull results in a larger grease mark. </p><p>“Well, she could use a shine,” she tempers, “but she’s functionally good as new.” </p><p>Despite the early hour, the sun is already baking Din in his armor, and after a last, heartfelt thank you, he boards the Crest and readies himself for departure. </p><p>“Razor Crest, this is Mos Eisley Tower. I’m afraid there’s a bit of a line for landings and departures today.” </p><p>“So early?” protests Din.</p><p>“It’s market day,” answers the operator. </p><p>Din sighs, resigned, and the operator adds: </p><p>“We need the hangar for landing, please move to the queuing airfield.” </p><p>With another sigh, Din leaves Peli’s hangar to hop over to the airfield, where a line of at least a dozen grounded ships awaits, while a dozen more are lined up in the bright azur, on their approach to land. At least Grogu is down for his post-breakfast nap, so the wait should be quiet. </p><p>As he approaches the takeoff queue, Din spots a strange sight. Walking down the line of ships with buckets and mops, people seem to be offering some kind of… shipwash service? Or maybe just a window scrub? </p><p>Not caring either way, Din takes his spot in the queue. He’s about to settle down for his own nap in the pilot seat, never one to miss an opportunity for more rest, when a head of blond hair striped with grey catches his eye through the windshield. </p><p>Is that… </p><p>No… </p><p>Yes, it <em>is</em> Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Mos Pelgo, sauntering to his ship with a bucket of water, a mop and the most <em>ludicrous</em> outfit Din has ever witnessed on a person. Thinking that maybe his HUD is deceiving him through the cockpit’s transparisteel, Din slides down the ladder and exits the Crest through the side door. </p><p>The man waves, and Din has plenty of time to confirm his identity and consider his attire more closely as he approaches. It is indeed Vanth, wearing... or rather <em>not</em> wearing... most of anything. His trademark red scarf is wholly absent, his legs bared by what looks suspiciously like a pair of tight pants cut off mid-thigh. And his top... his shirt seems to have also had an unlucky encounter with shears, and only reaches to his solar plexus or so. The faded fabric, no doubt once upon a time red, is now a light pink that complements Vanth’s tan. A tan Din can now tell does not fully extend to his paler belly. Despite being what Din would guess in his forties, the Marshal has the slender figure of a man half his age, lean muscles covered with a healthy layer of fat. Not that Din would notice such things.</p><p>Coming to a stop a couple meters away from Din, just where the Crest’s shadow ends, resplendent in the twin’s suns’ rays, Vanth cocks a hip and says:</p><p>“Like the outfit, Mando?”</p><p>It’s absolutely ridiculous, is what it is, and it’s doing weird things to Din’s stomach. Or maybe that’s the old ration he had for breakfast. At last, Din answers: </p><p>“It’s... you should cover yourself. To avoid sunburn.”</p><p>Vanth tilts his head, a slow smirk growing on his lips.</p><p>“First you ask me to undress, now you want me to dress, make up your mind, Mando.”</p><p>Despite being in the shade, Din is starting to feel hot. Damn planet… If Peli wasn’t such a good mechanic, he would never have come back. </p><p>“What is all this, anyway?” he asks, gruffly, gesturing at the bucket and mop. </p><p>Vanth puts the bucket down, freeing a hand to push floppy hair away from his face. </p><p>“Y’know, our condensator never fully recovered from the last of the krayt’s visits. Gave up the ghost good last week, and the townsfolk could only scrounge so many credits, so I’ve devised this here scheme to cover the rest.”</p><p>“A scantily clad shipwash?”</p><p>The words blurt out of Din’s mouth with limited input from his brain. Thankfully, Vanth must be already addled by sunstroke, because instead of taking offense he barks a laugh. Meeting Din’s visor with his gaze, he runs an exaggeratedly suggestive hand down his chest, lingering longer than necessary on his flat belly. </p><p>“Are you implying ‘tis my virtue these pilots are after, and not a good polish?”</p><p>The heat must have gotten to Din as well, because his first thought is that his <em>armor</em> could use a good polish, and the image it conjures, of Vanth all up in his business and mostly naked, has him reddening under his helmet. Conscious the longer the silence goes, the worse the implication, Din answers belatedly:</p><p>“Sure, a good <em>polish</em> is all they’re after.” </p><p>Din was aiming for sarcasm, but must have missed because Vanth looks him up and down, a considering expression on his face, before answering lightly: </p><p>“Well, whatever job we’re doin’, we’re doin’ it well. There’s been a line all morning.”</p><p>“The Tower said the delay was because of market day.”</p><p>“Is it now?” </p><p>Vanth winks, a barefaced custom Din never quite knows how to interpret. </p><p>“Are you saying you bribed the Tower to ground outgoing ships?”</p><p>“Oh, who says t’was bribery, maybe I just gave them that good polish.”</p><p>An image, Vanth grinding in some anonymous woman’s lap, his head thrown back as she runs her hands over his denuded lower back, flashes behind Din’s visor. Shaking his head to chase it, he grounds out:</p><p>“I’m all out of credits, you can take your polishing elsewhere.” </p><p>Vanth recoils at the sudden harshness, and Din berates himself. Vanth picks up his bucket, straightens up, and declares:</p><p>“Well, no need for an unkind tone. I didn't mean to offend your chaste ways.” </p><p>The Marshal sounds even, but his shoulders are stiff and his gait loses its earlier swagger as he walks away. By the time the Mandalorian has thought of an apology, Vanth is already talking up the pilot of the ship before the Crest in the line.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next hour is a torture the likes of which Din has not been trained to resist. While the powered down Razor Crest heats up under the twin suns, cooking Din in his armor where he sits in the cockpit, Vanth outside seems to be having a grand old time washing that other ship. Be it sweat or water from his bucket, as time passes the man is increasingly wet, the little clothing he wears sticking to his body in a tantalizing way.</p><p>Trying to distract himself from the arousing sight of the Marshal bending over to buff the underside of the other ship’s reactor, Din gets out of the pilot seat to check on the child. Grogu is protected from the worst of the heat in his new, temperature-controlled pram. Din opens the pram, sleepy eyes barely come open, then the kid just rolls over and starts snoring right away, high pitch and entirely too adorable. With a sigh, Din closes the pram and returns to his seat. </p><p>He regrets his short words. The way his unhelpful libido has decided to wake up right here, right now, is no fault of Vanth. Even if the man had really traded sexual favors in exchange for the Tower’s help in gathering clients for his fundraising, it’s not Din’s place to judge. He’s done worse to get the Crest repaired or soup for Grogu. </p><p>Din is also not wholly stunned to find himself wanting the Marshal. His previous stay on Tatooine was too brief to get to know the man well, but Vanth’s dedication to his village did him honor. And of course, there’s the small fact that, even wearing ill-fitting armor, Vanth was attractive, and Din took notice. Din suspects even a grain sack would suit the man. A couple of times since the Krayt dragon’s hunt, the bounty hunter has found himself thinking about Vanth and his small town, idly wondering if it might be a good place to settle down once… well, once he’s found a Jedi to raise Grogu, or once it’s sure the kid will remain his foundling. </p><p>Steering his thoughts away from the possibility of saying goodbye to Grogu, Din goes back to observing Vanth. The man is almost done with the ship in front of the Crest, and will likely move on to the one behind it soon. Impulsively, Din decides to apologize and, hurrying down the ladder and into the Crest’s hold, hesitates between which door to wait out of for Vanth to walk by. </p><p>What if the Marshal makes a detour to avoid the Crest entirely? </p><p>Knowing he’s going to miss his opportunity altogether if he doesn’t make a decision, Din lowers the full back ramp. A wave of heat hits the cooler hold and Din already regrets his decision. With a sigh, he walks out and goes to look on the starboard side. Nothing but sand, sky, and the wavering horizon. Feeling dejected, Din realizes he has missed his chance already. Sighing, he crosses back across and leans forward to peer around the corner at port side… and almost knocks the Marshal out through head-on-helmet collision. </p><p>“Wow, partner.”</p><p>Vanth has stepped back in surprise and, as Din straightens up, he follows suit, his turn to lean around the corner. The Marshal looks at the open ramp like he’s wondering why the kriff Din is doing, letting all the heat in like that, and Din finds himself saying:</p><p>“I, er, thought you might want some water.”  </p><p>Vanth, holding his mop in one hand and his bucket in the other, pushes his sweaty fringe away from his forehead with his arm before raising the bucket. </p><p>“I’ve got water.” </p><p>Din looks down at the muddy, sandy liquid in the pail. </p><p>“To drink. Water to drink,” he clarifies. </p><p>“Ah.” </p><p>There’s a moment where both men are looking at the bucket, then their gazes meet through Din’s visor. Vanth licks his lips, a peek of pink there and gone, and Din’s heart kicks up a notch. </p><p>“Sure, I could use watering.” </p><p>Din retreats inside the ship, walking backwards, like Vanth is a wild animal that might spook and run away if he doesn’t keep an eye on it. The Marshal follows, however, and soon Din is closing the ship’s ramp, more for shade than anything else as the desert heat has had plenty of time to move in. </p><p>Din’s HUD is faster to adapt to the sudden dim light than Vanth’s eyes, and for a handful of seconds, the Mandalorian gets to detail the man’s silhouette unobserved. He watches in silence the slender play of muscle, fat, and bone as Vanth puts his bucket and mop down, blinking against the darkness. </p><p>Before Vanth can catch him gawking, Din goes to turn on a storm lantern, flooding a corner of the hold with warm orange light. He then busies himself finding a clean enough recipient and pouring water in from the water spout by the vacc tube. </p><p>When he turns back to the Marshal, the man is looking around curiously, pushing his floppy hair back again as he inspects Zero’s head. When Din approaches, Vanth turns to him, rubbing a hand on his neck. Peeking from the cropped shirt’s collar where Vanth’s fingers just were is, unmistakably, a slave brand. </p><p>Din wordlessly hands the man the mug of water, mind churning. It is not rare for slaves on Tatooine and elsewhere to use sex to pay their way to freedom. When money and the opportunities to earn it run scarce, many turn to trading their bodies, for violence, like Din, or for pleasure. As he watches him down the water, Din wonders if Vanth has done so. He seemed comfortable joking about it earlier, though that might have been to poke fun at Din, more than anything else. The Marshal throws his head back, gulping the last of the water, and hands the mug back. Din takes it and, looking down at it in his hands, declares:</p><p>“I was callous earlier, and it was uncalled for. I apologize.” </p><p>“Hmmh.”</p><p>Lifting his head, Din looks at Vanth, who bites his lip before answering:</p><p>“You’re broke, that happens. Plus, you were right.”</p><p>“I was?”</p><p>Vanth smiles and, stepping closer to Din and to the storm light, moves the sleeve of his shirt. There’s a distinct color difference between where the fabric covered his shoulder, and the rest of his arm. </p><p>“Sunburn?” </p><p>“Yeah. Tomorrow will sting.”</p><p>Vanth is standing close, Din can see his chest rise and fall, and the gleam of sweat gathering at the hollow of his clavicule. It makes him reckless. </p><p>“I have bacta. If you want,” he says. </p><p>Vanth looks up at him from under his lashes, considering. A small smile graces his lips, and he steps closer. </p><p>“You don’t mind sparing some?”</p><p>Din forgoes answering, brushing past Vanth instead to go pull out the medkit. The heat and the tension have him sweat under his armor, and he takes a slow, centering breath before walking back to the Marshal. </p><p>“Sit down?” </p><p>The man nods, and lowers himself onto the bench, leaving Din to stand in front of him. The storm lantern’s glow reflects off of Vanth’s flaxen hair, sending heat skittering in Din’s gut. The Marshal’s damp fringe is back in his face, and the Mandalorian resists the urge to brush it back as he sets the medkit next to the man on the bench. He wants… he wants to apply the bacta spray himself, he wants an excuse to brush a bare hand on the other man’s reddened, no doubt burning skin. Din fiddles with the spray, and hands it to Vanth. </p><p>Vanth takes off his excuse for a shirt. </p><p>Without sparing a glance for Din, still from the sight of so much bare skin, Vanth starts spraying the bacta over his arms, shoulders, and belly. His sigh of comfort reminds Din to let go of the breath he’s holding. It’s hot, in this ship, the air he inhales burns his dry throat, a stark contrast to his wet skin. Maybe something in Din’s tremulous exhalation catches Vanth’s ear, because he pauses his treatment and looks at Din, finally, who is trying hard not to let his eyes stray to a pale chest with a smattering of blond hair tapering off to a tanner abdomen. </p><p>“D’you mind doin’ my back?”</p><p>Vanth is handing the can to Din, and he takes it gingerly, crouching to be the right height. Vanth turns, sitting with one leg folded on the bench and the other foot on the floor so that his back is to Din, who shivers at this show of trust. The slave brand is almost invisible in the low light, the raised scar’s shadow the only giveaway. Din starts spraying the bacta. His gloved hands hover close enough that he feels the heat of Vanth’s sunburned skin, and yet, Din dares not touch.</p><p>All too soon, he is done, and he passes the can to Vanth, who quickly covers his legs before giving it back to Din. A buzz under his own, hidden skin, Din busies himself with putting away the medkit. When he looks at Vanth again, the man is shrugging his half-shirt back on. The scant meter between them feels impassable. </p><p>Suddenly, a piece of the hull goes clang, expanding with the heat, waking Din from his trance. </p><p>“More water?” he offers, his voice rough. </p><p>Vanth nods eagerly, pulling repeatedly on his shirt in a vain effort to air himself as Din fetches him some water. Din’s HUD informs him the temperature has reached 31ºC inside the hold. Vanth drinks in long, even swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing as he drains the mug. Din feels faint. Vanth licks his lips when he’s done and Din can’t help but wet his own in a mimic he’s barely aware of. </p><p>“Thanks, Mando.” </p><p>Din nods, taking back the mug. By habit, he throws his cape over his shoulder before bending to put away the cup, and when he stands back up, Vanth is shaking his head: </p><p>“A cape on top of the armor, how are you not dyin’ of heat?”</p><p>Taking stock of his elevated heart rate, overall fluster, and the sweat trickling down the side of his face under the helmet, Din answers truthfully:</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Dyin’ of heat?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Vanth stands up, walking to Din. </p><p>“You know,” he starts, “you’re goin’ to be here a while still. Last I heard, they were barely done landin’ the arrivin’ ships.” </p><p>Din’s heart ratchets up a notch. Exhilarated and terrified in equal measures, the Mandalorian unhooks his cape, and starts putting away his weapons. Vanth watches him carefully pile the armament on the bench for a moment, two moments, then says, almost too quiet to catch:</p><p>“I can help.”</p><p>Willing his everything to behave, tight throat, racing heart, fluttering gut, Din pulls off his vambraces, places them on the bench, and asks:</p><p>“Don’t they need you out there?”</p><p>Vanth steps closer. Din lets his hands drop to his sides.</p><p>“I’m sure they can spare me for a beat longer.”</p><p>Din spread his arms, as much of a ‘go ahead’ as he dares to give. Vanth steps closer still and gets to work. His fingers are nimble on the catches and Din is reminded that Vanth wore Mandalorian armor not so long ago. His hands have not forgotten, and he divests Din of his pauldrons first, then of his cuirass. Din feels exposed, nothing but fabric between the quickening tattoo of his heart and Vanth. </p><p>His predicament worsens when Vanth kneels, casual as can be, and starts removing Din’s greaves, and cuisses. As blood rushes down, Din prays deities he does not believe in that the thick material of his flight suit will save him from further embarrassment. He thinks his hopes have been answered until Vanth gets up, closer than he was before, and says:</p><p>“Breathe, Mando, I’m stoppin’ here.”</p><p>Din pants, not having realized he wasn’t breathing in the first place. Vanth makes to step back, but Din wraps a trembling hand around his wrist before he does so. </p><p>“What if… I don’t want you to?” he whispers. </p><p>Vanth’s gulp and widening eyes are gratifying. </p><p>“What is, er, on the table here, so to say?” </p><p>Din pulls on the arm he’s holding, a suggestion Vanth takes as he steps ever closer, a hairbreadth between them now, eyes shadowed by his rebellious hair. Din’s HUD still says 31ºC, but it has to be wrong. Din murmurs:</p><p>“Everything but the helmet.”</p><p>“Kriff, ain’t that a picture.”</p><p>The swear is heartfelt, and Din chuckles, letting go of Vanth’s wrist in favor of running his hand up the man’s arm and to the curve of his neck, made longer by the absence of the red scarf. Vanth’s blinks fast when the leather grazes his brand and he suggests, voice low: </p><p>“Let’s lose the gloves, hmm? I’ve been wonderin’ if your hands are soft from wearin’ them, or callused.”</p><p>Din complies, settled by the routine of pulling each finger individually before taking the whole glove off. </p><p>“You’ve thought about my hands?” he wonders aloud. </p><p>“More than is wise considerin’ I don’t even know your name.” </p><p>The man is fishing, it’s clear, all fathier eyes and coy smile, but the full beskar armor is a breach of anonymity already, these days, so the Mandalorian offers:</p><p>“Din.”</p><p>Cobb hums, pleased, and takes one of Din’s bare hands in his. </p><p>“Well, you’ve got smooth hands, Din.”</p><p>Hearing his name in somebody else’s mouth is a thrill the bounty hunter was not expecting. Vanth leads Din’s hand back to his neck, and Din traces the arch of it, avoiding the brand in favor of moving to the underneath of Vanth’s jaw, sensitive finger pads catching on the stubble there before he reaches the beard proper, softer than he expected. The Marshal leans into the touch, and Din wants, with painful clarity, to please this man before the morning is through. </p><p>“Vanth…”</p><p>Blue eyes flutter open and the drawl is amused when Vanth says:</p><p>“You better call me Cobb, if we’re doin’ this.”</p><p>Din nods, and uses his free hand to finally push back the fringe that has been taunting him. Vanth’s hair is damp, but Din doesn’t care.</p><p>“Cobb, what do you want?”</p><p>Cobb looks up at Din, considering, before he says: </p><p>“Honestly, I’m not a picky guy. Right now, I just want my mouth on you.”</p><p>This time, when the man licks his lips it’s clearly deliberate, and Din falters, picturing Cobb on his knees as he was a minute ago, but with the both of them naked.</p><p>“Please…” Din utters, and starts unzipping his flight suit. </p><p>Cobb watches, rapt, as the fabric parts, revealing Din’s torso. Din shivers as the ship’s air meets his sweaty skin. Suddenly, peeling the outfit off, revealing his unwashed and scarred body, strikes him as a majorly unsexy act. Either sensing his hesitation, or deciding he’s too slow, Cobb brings his hands between Din’s, slipping them under the parted edges, skimming fingers up his sides, all the way to Din’s armpits, who starts, tickled. </p><p>“Cobb…”</p><p>His warning goes unheaded — the Marshal groans, impatient, barely glancing up at Din’s visor before he goes back to his exploration. Din’s pulse jumps as the broad, sand-rough hands dip lower, detailing his ribs before reaching his hips. Din hurries to pull on his own sleeves, extracting his arms and letting the flight suit flop over at the waist. Cobb steps backs, eyes roaming, before they meet Din’s gaze behind the visor. A smirk blooms on Cobb’s lips and, without warning, he unzips the flight suit the rest of the way before pushing it down, causing Din’s hard cock to bounce out of it. </p><p>“Cobb!” </p><p>This time, the indignant cry gets him a happy laugh. While Din, embarrassed, has to crouch and remove his boots so he can step out of the flightsuit’s legs, Cobb comments, unrepentant: </p><p>“Just… Gettin’ a little greedy, I guess. S’not every day I get to do this.”</p><p>Din stands back up, realizing that Cobb has yet to remove any of the few pieces of clothing he is wearing. The bulge in the man’s cut-off pants is gratifying, though, and now that Din is nude he feels better, his skin cooling as the sweat dries off, a quiver running down his body. </p><p>“How do you want to do this?”</p><p>Glancing around the hold, Cobb answers: </p><p>“My old bones wouldn’t mind some comfort, I’ll admit, even if the thought of kneelin’ some more at your feet’s a nice one.” </p><p>Cobb winks, and Din shivers for an entirely new reason. Stalking to Cobb, he offers his hand. Smiling, Cobb takes it, and Din walks them the few steps to his storage-turned-cot area. It’s already too small for Din alone, but at least it is padded. Opening the closet with his free hand, Din sits on the edge, stretching back to reach his pillow. There’s a grunt from Cobb’s direction, and when Din turns around the man is biting his lip, extending the hand Din is not holding toward the Mandalorian. Unsure what he wants, Din hands him the pillow. </p><p>“Yeah, ok, that’s good too,” distractedly murmurs Cobb, dropping it to the ground and kneeling. </p><p>The Marshal shimmies a bit once he’s there, making himself comfortable. For a second, the plunging view down his shirt allows Din a glance at that tantalizing chest hair. The next second Cobb leans forward, and Din’s thoughts turn to a heat and wetness of an entirely new nature as Cobb kisses his chest, teasing Din with a pectoral nibble that has the Mandalorian moaning before he can hold the noise back. </p><p>“Oh, sensitive.”</p><p>Din stiffens, not sure what Vanth means, but the man immediately gentles him:</p><p>“No, relax, it’s lovely.” </p><p>Cobb runs mirrored, long caresses from Din’s wrists up to his shoulders, then down to his waist, along his thighs and down to his ankles. Din’s skin breaks out in goosebumps, and he lets a tremulous groan escape him. </p><p>“That’s it, I want to hear you, let me know how I’m doin’.”</p><p>Cobb goes back to licking his way down to Din’s crotch, and Din resists the urge to laugh incredulously. People who would undress him and please him are few and far between, and he feels about ready to come already. </p><p>“You’re… doing… maybe too well,” he warns Cobb, and the man leans back on his heels, looking smug. </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Din nods. </p><p>“Come here.”</p><p>After urging Cobb to stand, Din gets started on undressing him, taking his time. After caressing the bared belly, where the sunburned skin had already faded to a deep tan thanks to the bacta, Din rubs the other man’s skin at the edge of the tight, cut-off pants he is wearing. He lingers on the zip and, realizing Cobb is wearing another, softer layer below, is careful to peel the pants off first. The diminutive garment falls to the ground and Cobb steps out of it, throwing it carelessly behind him.</p><p>Cobb adjusts himself and the line of his dick under the thin red underwear draws Din’s touch. It’s getting warm again in the Razor Crest’s hold as Din cups another person’s sex with bare hands for the first time in what might be years. Din presses gently and Cobb’s pleased sigh is all the encouragement he needs to pull down the soft fabric, leaving the Marshal in nothing but his cropped, pink shirt, cock curving the slightest bit to the right. </p><p>The urgency has faded a bit, enough that Din deems it safe to pull Cobb down, encouraging him to sit on his lap. The man goes easily enough, and the weight of him is grounding as Din ventures across the vast expanse of a back now available to him. Trapped between skin and cloth, finger pads discover a map of scars not unlike Din’s own. Cobb is doing tracing of his own on Din’s back, his hands in turn grazing and massaging. The sensations are amazing, Din’s skin tingly where it has been touched and wanting where it has not. Din moans when Cobb sweeps his palms down on either side of Din’s spine, his cock jumping at the simple sensuality of being touched so thoroughly. </p><p>“Yeah, Din, that’s it…”</p><p>Cobb’s murmured use of his name sends a jolt of arousal through the Mandalorian. Cobb hums approvingly, wordless, and starts grinding his hips, closer, closer, until both their cocks are trapped between their bellies. Once there he moves in a slow, circular pattern that has Din helplessly clenching his hands on Cobb’s shoulder blades, holding him even tighter against him. The skin-to-skin contact, from their chests to their groins, is glorious, but not as much as Cobb leaning his head on Din’s helmet and whimpering right against his audio intake every time the pressure is just right. </p><p>The whine rises to a full-on moan when Din has the bright idea to fit a hand between them and wrap them both in it. The friction is too dry despite the sweat gathering on their bodies again, but it doesn’t matter, Din knows he won’t last much longer. Judging by how tightly Cobb is now gripping his shoulders while his hips accelerate their back and forth, he is close too. </p><p>Throat dry like the sands of Tatooine, Din asks:</p><p>“Is this… what you thought of?” </p><p>He lets go of his own sex to focus on Cobb’s, letting the other fuck his fist, and Cobb leans away to do so, back arched, hair in his face again, panting open-mouthed as he comes silently, pumping his hips one, two, three more times. Din commits the picture to memory, the golden skin gleaming with sweat in the orange light of the storm lantern, the hooded blue eyes finding his visor, briefly, before closing in pleasure. </p><p>Cobb bends forward again, hugging Din, body quivering with aftershocks as he lazily pushes against Din still. It’s Din’s turn to soothe Cobb, brushing his back with steady hands. </p><p>“Maker, you make me crazy,” eventually says the Marshal. </p><p>Pushing Din’s hand out of the way, he starts wanking him, the friction easier with Cobb’s come easing the way. A couple deep breaths later, Cobb whispers to Din’s audio intake:</p><p>“The moment you accepted my dumb trade for that armor, I was a goner. Ain’t not right for one man to carry himself like you do and still be soft for Tusken pets and broke miners.” </p><p>“I…”</p><p>“Shh, I’m talkin’ now.” </p><p>Cobb punctuates his order with a particularly skillful squeeze and Din obeys, too busy trying not to buck Cobb off his lap entirely. </p><p>“I’ve got a bit of a thing for competent men, you see, and the way you handled yourself, and that krayt, well…” </p><p>Din wants to protest, he just did what was right, but he’s too far gone for the thought to coalesce into spoken words.</p><p>“Let’s say I’ve thought of many ways to be grateful since,” continues Cobb, “and I’ve been regrettin’ you leavin’ so fast.” </p><p>Cobb moves back just far enough that he can bend forward and apply teeth and tongue to where Din’s neck meets his shoulder, right beneath the edge of the helmet. The extra stimulus sends Din over the edge, and he moans loudly as he comes. </p><p>“This here?” Cobb finishes, “That’s just the first of it, Din.”</p><p>Din opens his eyes to a sight he could get used to, sunburned, and confident, and licking its lips. Falling backwards on the small cot, Din takes the naked Marshal of Mos Pelgo along with him. </p><p>In a minute, things will get sticky, and it’s almost time for the kid’s second breakfast, and he’s still on the run from the Empire, but right here, right now, he basks in the promise of those assured words. </p>
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